


Bounty Hunting Killed the Space Star

by Mabz



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Armor Kink, Brooding, F/M, Famous Reader, Scent Kink, Sex in Space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26471626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mabz/pseuds/Mabz
Summary: A plot-heavy story starring you, the reader, an ultra-famous space pop star fallen from grace. Through a series of unfortunate events, you find yourself as a glorified babysitter on the Razor Crest and feeling like a perpetual burden. When Mando hides his face, no living being knows what he looks like. You hide your face because EVERYONE knows what you look like.Plot heavy. Intended smut for every chapter.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 12
Kudos: 154





	Bounty Hunting Killed the Space Star

You curse quietly to yourself as you jab your abused thumb – _again ­­_ – with the business end of a sewing needle. The baby plays happily with an empty spool of thread by your feet, scooting it across the ship floor with its three chubby digits. His ears twitched at your almost-imperceptible mutter, watching you with those glittering dark eyes as you stuck your thumb in your mouth.

“S’okay kiddo,” you murmur around your thumb, nudging him slightly with your shin with emphasis. The last couple of times you had stabbed yourself, the little gremlin had groped for your hand with exaggerated concern. It took a fair amount of redirection to convince the little guy it wasn’t worth the wash of super-powered healing energy he was itching to dole out.

Fuzzball blinked up at you, uttered the most exasperated coo you’ve ever heard, and resumed rolling the spool around on the floor.

You set the garments you were working on down on the small table on the main deck, watching the baby entertain himself while sucking your wound. You were attempting to patch the wear and tear to your own disguise – a loose-fitting, dark-colored Ubese bounty hunter outfit. The outfit itself effectively disguised your curves and rendered you sexless, which was the point really. A matching Ubese helmet, scuffed and worn in several places, perched next to the disguise. You watched your own cloudy reflection in the tinted visor, feeling ripe with the sudden and depressing reality.

The Mandalorian, the pilot of this old military vessel – the Razor Crest – which your butt was currently parked in and your - likely - unwilling benefactor, was away from the ship at present chasing his latest bounty. He had been gone for several days, leaving you to putter around the small ship in an attempt to make yourself useful.

You had bathed, fed, and played with the child. You had mended and washed clothing – if you could call furiously trying to vibrate away set-in bloodstains in the sonic shower _washing_ – rubbed the scuff out of boots, dusted and swept the small space, changed the sheets on the bed, and wiped down all of the surfaces. You had even attempted to make small repairs to the ship, pouring over the ship’s schematics for hours on the cockpit display to ensure you didn’t accidentally activate the self-destruct protocol or some other hilariously tragic sequence to kneecap the space relic.

All of this ‘busy work’ was really just a distraction. You were acutely aware of the dwindling food rations and supplies. You had run out of flavor packs long ago, and it took a lot of cajoling now to convince the kid to gum down the bland meat substitutes. Mostly he just let the white mush dribble from his lipless maw in a lump of unappetizing goop.

You knew the Mandalorian didn’t like to talk about it, but this and the distinct lack of carbonized bounties hung from the ship like pig carcasses was telling in regards to their financial situation.

You were aware that in order to keep the Razor Crest flying, Mando hadn’t been picky lately in the selection of his bounties. Therefore, you found yourself on increasingly volatile and dangerous planets, with Mando disappearing for longer and longer amounts of time. He almost always returned with his quarry, in the end, but the days between each excursion were becoming longer and longer. When it came to it, it wasn’t hard to tell that they were only barely scraping by.

 _They –_ ha! It seemed almost surreal, being a part of a _they_. Like a weird little family.

After the disaster on Nevarro, where you know Mando and the kid had only narrowly escaped with their lives – Mando had told you that Greef Karga, an agent of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild, had promised him his pick of the bounty fobs once the Guild reestablished itself after the wake of the Imperial. Given how chatty the Mandalorian had been once you arrived, it was a miracle you managed to get _that_ much out of him.

Karga had warned that the rebuilding could take time though, and it _had_. The Mandalorian had felt it in his own coffers, and having two additional mouths to feed certainly didn’t help.

You looked sidelong at the kid on the floor. You have been giving the baby most of your rations on this trip, despite his best efforts to regurgitate the gruel back onto his lap. After all, if your past was any indication you were certainly used to going for a long amount of time without a proper meal.

It was funny, in a way. The irony was that you had enough credits to your name to buy the Razor Crest itself several hundred times over. Perhaps even this cold, grimy little planet. Mando, has forbidden you to touch those credits, and for good reason.

Though there is no official warrant for your arrest and all charges against you have since been exonerated, there are plenty of powerful men and women whose lives you had effectively ruined that would love nothing more thank to mount your head on their hearth. The moment you lay claim to just a single credit you would put yourself at risk of discovery.

And, with a baby in your charge, that risk was just unacceptable.

One of the more unfortunate aspects of your situation is that, like Mando, whenever you ventured out of the Razor Crest it was crucial that you covered yourself from helmet to boot in a disguise that completely masked your features and nullified any hint of femininity. However, unlike Mando, you were not tethered by a religious creed.

You couldn’t imagine when the Mandalorian last allowed anyone to see what he looked like under that mask.

On the contrary, your problem was that _everyone_ knew what you looked like under yours.

In a hefty dose of reality laying a colossal crap on your life, you had started your misadventure as one – if not the most – of the most famous pop singers and media starlets in this galaxy. You were the star of the New Republic, their beacon of light in the darkness. You were essentially the face of the Resistance, and the sweetheart of its soldiers.

In a series of unfortunate events and not one, but _two_ run-ins with the Mandalorian which resulted in him saving your life – twice – you found yourself here. In this cold, dank ship. With a weird alien baby, a sore thumb, a mostly empty stomach, and exactly zero prospects. Oh, and a shiny landlord that certainly takes the ‘strong but silent’ persona a bit too seriously.

You blew out a breath, sending snarls of hair flying from your face. The puff of air billowed around your face in a light fog, which startled you out of your piteous musings. When did it get so cold in the ship?

You clamber out of your chair – which was really just a bench cut into the metal wall of the hull – and stagger over to the temperature display. Your eyes boggled at the temperate gauge, the readout seeming to slowly creep down as you watched.

It was the fuel, or lack thereof. You weren’t an expert on the ship by any means, but this wasn’t hard to figure out from the red flashing DANGER, LOW FUEL pulsing across the display. You could see the amount of fuel left wasn’t enough to keep the ship heated while maintaining an acceptable level for takeoff. The ship had then chosen the latter, only keeping the ancillary systems limping along in favor of sectioning off enough fuel to break the stratosphere.

You chewed your lip, finger hovering above the override button. Nights were _cold_ on this backwater ball of ice Mando had parked them on, and the nighttime chill makes short work of leeching heat from the hull. You weren’t sure if making it through the 12-hour setting phase of this planet’s moons without heat was even feasible, especially with the kid in tow. It could border on dangerous.

Then again, if the Crest didn’t have enough fuel to get into the air, that could pose an even greater risk. You _knew_ Mando didn’t have enough credits to fuel the Crest before leaving this ice planet. At least, you were more than certain.

Thirdly, at risk of sounding like a complete buffoon, _space_ itself was cold. Much colder than the perpetual winter of a dark, Outer Rim planet two parsecs north of nowhere. You knew that the ship would eventually reach and level out on a heat output above or equal to the heat generated by running the ancillary systems – filtration, gravity, etc - themselves. This was a standard safety feature of any ship you’ve ever been on – and you’ve done _a lot_ of traveling in your past life - and was in all the brochures. And if this safety feature could keep passengers alive in _space_ , then surely you and the fuzzball could survive a night on this ice planet.

It would be cold as fuck, but you’d survive.

You withdrew your finger from the override button, drawing your bare hands around you in a tight hug to conserve heat. There was just no getting around it – you’d have to tough out the cold. Otherwise, you’d have no way off this chilly rock. Plus, you really didn’t look forward to the Mandalorian’s reaction if you inadvertently strand the ship here.

True to form, the Mandalorian probably hadn’t said more than 100 words to you in the few weeks you’ve been traveling together. You had heard of Mandalorians, of course, even prior to the first time you encountered Mando. They appeared from time to time in your lyrics with monikers of _tough_ and _warrior_ and _brooding_. You knew of their ferocity in battle and desire for cultural secrecy. You also knew that seeing one in person was like spotting a two-headed Gungan – technically, not impossible, but exceedingly rare.

However, nothing had really prepared you for the deafening _silence_ aboard the ship. Silence was not something you were ever used to, with your life thus far always filled with the warbling of music or the dull roar of crowds or jeering fans. Silence made you anxious and unsettled.

First, you had chattered incessantly to your shiny shipmate in an effort to fill it. You quickly learned than Mando was _not_ a ‘fill the silence’ kind of being, and your jabbering was more often than not met with awkward, drawn out silences. Sometimes, he would eventually answer. Most of the time, he did not.

So, the days following you had forced yourself to subsist in the stillness of the ship. It did get easier after a while. The nervous tics you had developed like pacing or leg jiggling became less frequent.

The quietness aboard the vessel led you to appreciate the Crest’s bangs, clacks, and groans. It also permitted you to appreciate the beauty and _nothingness_ of hyperspace far greater, as you watched the rays of white light arc around the cockpit when the ship’s hyperdrive groaned to life. Mostly, the bouts of silence caused you to appreciate _him_ a whole lot more.

Hyperspace wasn’t the only thing you watched from your position in the copilot’s chair, bouncing the child in your lap absent-mindedly. It still floored you, really, that a person clad in head-to-toe armor could command such a _presence._

You weren’t sure when your crush on the Mandalorian began. You’re pretty sure it wasn’t when he had finally cornered you, your face dripping with sweat and gasping with exertion, back when you were still his bounty. You had tried to attack him then, your heart full of hate.

You’re also fairly certain it wasn’t when you were handcuffed to the Crest, pleading for the bounty hunter to carry out what amounted to your dying wish. You were desperate then, consumed by pain and mounting hopelessness.

It may have been when you realized later, with shock – _he had_ – and as a result had squandered any hope the Mandalorian may have had in turning you in and collecting his rightful bounty.

It may have been when he found you even later on, extending the offer of a life aboard the Crest as a glorified maid and babysitter. It was certainly a better alternative to the miserable existence you had found yourself in at the time.

No matter when it had begun, you now were acutely aware of the delicious coil of warmth in your belly whenever the bounty hunter’s deep timbre rumbled over his voice modulator. You often found yourself distracted by his large, gloved hands dancing over the controls of the Crest, and would come back to yourself with a jolt whenever fuzzball wriggled or mewled from your lap.

Possibly the most humiliating part of your predicament is that you were one hundred percent sure the Mandalorian didn’t give two shits about you. The bounty hunter appeared to have zero interest in your superstar status, your music, or really anything having to do with your past life.

All conversations were practical without an ounce of warmth. _When will you be back? Stay on the ship. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t feed the kid too many meat substitute rations in one sitting._ You wondered if he found you annoying, or hard to be around. Then again, the guy wasn’t a ball of charm to anyone else you’ve seen him interact with, either. Just your luck to get the hots for an emotionless android.

You sigh, shuffling over to fuzzball and promptly scooping him up and tucking him into your breast.

“Alright kiddo,” you tell him, “It’ll gonna get a little nippy, so you’re bunking with me tonight.”

You then scuttle over to Mando’s quarters, flinging open one-handed the closest thing to a linen closet on the Crest and gathering every available bedsheet and blanket into the crook of your one free elbow. You then toss the pile into the kid’s quarters, keeping fuzzball securely fastened to your chest. You have a hammock-like sleeping corner set up in the cargo hold, but your hope was that the tighter fit of the kid’s quarters would conserve heat better.

You feel the child shiver involuntarily under your arm, and your immediate reaction was to clutch him tighter against you.

“You’re right, it did get colder,” you murmur, checking the readout again on the temperate gauge. It had very clearly dropped a few more degrees in the ship, but was still – you believed – above that ‘safety’ line, if only by a point or two.

You stood there for a moment, wracked by indecision. You wriggled your toes in your shoes.

Finally, making up your mind, you trudged over to the Mandalorian’s quarters and buzzed the door open.

Though you’ve caught glimpses of the small, closet-like room as your shipmate entered and exited – it was a small ship, after all – you’ve never actually had any reason to find yourself here.

The first few purposeful steps into his quarters stuttered to a halt when, promptly, your hormones went haywire. A scent of heady masculinity hit your senses and you just stood there for a moment, goosebumps pebbling your skin as you were thunderstruck by the sensation.

You wouldn’t be able to tell standing right in front of him with all that armor, but damn, the Mandalorian smelled _good_.

“Okay, get a grip,” you chide yourself, actually having to shake your head to focus. The kid shivered in your arms, and you reorient yourself to your task.

You find Mando’s clothing receptacles and fling them open, finding extra pairs of socks, thick long-sleeved shirts, pants, and gloves. _Perfect._

You awkwardly pull these on while maintaining a tight grip on fuzzball, unwilling to separate him from your body heat. You use one of the Mandalorian’s long-sleeved shirts as an extra layer for the child, tying off the long arms of the shirt around his small frame.

At the end, you and the kid were all but swimming in the much-too-large clothing. But, fortunately, you felt warmer under all the heavy gear so you waddled slowly back to fuzzball’s quarters, careful to pick your feet up high with each step so you didn’t land on your face.

Once there, you proceeded to swaddle yourself and the kid in the extra sheets and blankets in a series of clumsy but determined punches and kicks. Finally settled, you curl around the kid under the bedding burrito, your knees drawn close to your chest and feet tucked as close to the back of your thighs as possible.

You feel a small, cold hand on your face. A quiet noise coos from the darkness in front of you.

“Hey,” you murmur back, shimmying a hand up to grab at the baby’s appendage. You rub the little fist between your thumb and forefinger in an effort to warm it up. You then switch to his other hand, then his ears.

“It’ll be okay, the Mandalorian will be back soon I’m sure,” you continue, more to yourself than anything. “He’ll of received an alert I think about the temperature on his wrist computer. I know he gets all sorts of pings about the ship when he’s out there. I’m sure he’s coming back as fast as he can, he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.”

You smile wryly at that. As long as the kid is in danger you’ll be okay by default. Probably.

Another small coo, and a – now much warmer – hand grabs at your cheek again. An unexplained feeling of sadness and dubiety washed over you and was gone before it even had a chance to fully register.

You blink slowly, confused at where _that_ had come from.

However, you were much too chilly to dwell on it. Now that they were settled, the bite of air outside of their blanket fort had begun to seep back in. Your toes felt akin to ice cubes, and you wriggled them under layers of socks in an effort to generate more blood flow.

“Sorry kiddo,” you murmur, before lifting your – Mando’s – roomy shirt and tucking the fidgeting kid against your collarbone. Your fingers knead fuzzball’s back, his large head, and his ears through the shirt. You’re relieved to hear a contented murmur from the baby as he relaxed against you.

“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute,” you repeat in a whisper. You lean your head down and through the neck of the shirt to plant a kiss on the baby’s fuzzy green forehead. “Any minute now, I’m sure.”

You are roused from sleep slowly. The fabric around you shifts with movement, but you hardly acknowledge the activity. You feel sluggish and numb, your brain unable to break the icy surface of wakefulness. Your eyes blink open into darkness, disorienting you further.

Insistent, warm hands groped at you through the swath of textiles surrounding you. You make a confused, alarmed sound in your throat and cringe back from the invasion. At least, you tried. The connection from your brain to your limbs seemed to fizz out. All you managed was a small gurgle in your chest. Your shoulders may have also twitched, but you couldn’t be sure.

The hands paused, but only for the briefest moment. Some indistinguishable words from a muffled voice, then _LIGHT._

The bright white light seared across your retinas and you immediately clamp your eyes closed and tuck your head. The fluorescent overhead lights blazed at you through the cracks in your eyelids. Your nose brushed against a tepid baby head. Something soft quivered against your cheekbones, and it took a second for you realize it was fuzzball’s big bat ears moving against your face.

 _He’s alive…_ you realized in that moment, feeling immensely pleased at this knowledge.

Just a heartbeat later, those large hands reached _into your shirt_ and lifted the baby out. You felt a leather knuckle graze against the side of your breast, though you hardly noticed.

“Hey!” you wanted to shout, your concern attributed to the loss of the child from your grip, but the words died in your throat. Instead, an indignant, warbly squeak from your lungs filled the small sleeping cubby. Your mind stewed in frustration. You just didn’t understand why your body felt so numb and unresponsive.

A soothing, modulated shush came from above your head and the hands were back again, smoothing along your face and cupping and lifting your throat. You felt two gloved digits press into the pulse point on your neck. Your subconscious purred with delight at the touch - instantly distracted by its heat – and your head tilted on its axis to press your cheek more firmly into it.

You hear a curse above you and the hand withdrew. Immediately you hated its absence, and you couldn’t help the whimper that bubbled up in your chest. It came out thready and soft, more of a wheezing exhalation of air than sound. Your mind wailed in agitation and loss.

You hear the shushing noise again amidst muffled words but farther away, as though its owner was moving about the cabin. You heard a distinct cooing noise and babbling amidst the soft sounds of movement, which sufficiently interrupted your despair at the loss of body heat. The slight twitch of a smile tinged the corner of your mouth.

The kid was definitely alive, and against all odds sounded in good spirits. Wonderful.

The clink and clang of heavy metal against ship grating echoed around you, but you hardly noticed. However, a sudden rustling and shaking of the small cot registered and the weight of the blankets shifted off of you, inviting in a rush of cool, recycled air. You had just screwed up your face in anticipation of a loud, displeasured growl when the weight was replaced with something far, far more solid and far, far warmer.

Your eyes popped open in surprise, just catching the glint of a shiny dome and blank, T-shaped visor before the heavy blanket was replaced over them.

_Them._

_The Mandalorian was in here with you._

The bounty hunter across from you did not wait for you to recover from your shock. Your numb hands were scooped up and the gloves you had been wearing torn off and discarded. Those big hands then sandwiched your own together, mindful of the gnarled, hooked position your fingers had seemed to freeze in, and without preamble began rubbing you down.

You barely felt the pressure at first, your hands feeling like clubs in the warrior’s leather grip, but eventually the friction gave way to a slight tingle. Then prickling. Then _burning._

“Ow…ww…” you stammer out, causing the Mandalorian to pause, perhaps as surprised as you were by your vocalization.

“That’s good,” he replied - relief coloring his modulated voice -and he sounded _so close_ , like you could just lean forward and-

Mando then yanked you forward into himself, trapping your burning hands between the two of you. You were effectively enveloped by his body heat. In response, you abruptly melted with satisfaction.

You found the crook of his neck in the darkness and unabashedly burrowed your nose into that column of throat. Mando seemed unfazed, his hands working over the back of your neck, your back, hips, and thighs. He even manhandled your knees up between your bodies and reached down to grip and massage your bare feet, of course only after prying off your heavy boots and socks.

You knew in any other circumstance you would have felt embarrassed, perhaps horrified, at the intimate attention but in this moment of pure bliss you just couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Heat from the friction and shared body heat slowly seeped into your skin and into your bones. Like your hands, your entire body began to tingle… then prickle… then _burn._ As you slowly regained feeling in your extremities you began to quake uncontrollably.

The Mandalorian held you fast, literally kneading the life back into you as you shook yourself back to awareness.

You did not know for sure long you two stayed like that, but it felt like stars were made and destroyed in the time he held you. You eventually shivered yourself into unconsciousness, the warmth and security of your position lulling you into a dreamless sleep.

You came to consciousness some time later in a drowsy trickle of awareness. You became mildly cognizant of the snug and cozy position you found yourself in, tucked securely against a much bigger and harder body than your own.

Your face was still nuzzled into the thin material at the neck of the warm body beside you, close enough that you could just detect the almost imperceptible beat of a pulse against your cheek. Your nostrils flared as you inhaled their scent, drinking it in almost greedily.

While you slept, you found that your body had reacted to the scent and otherwise close proximity of the person beside you with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. You found yourself more than warmed up - you felt flushed with arousal, a lick of pleasure simmering low in your belly. The places where your bodies made contact – his neck against your face, his arms around your torso, his pelvis against your drawn-up knees, felt exquisitely hot.

A contented purr rose from your chest as you shift slightly to make yourself more comfortable, aiming to alleviate the cramping in your thighs at the compact way they had been contorted while you slept.

Across from you, the Mandalorian shifted as well as though he was waiting for you to stir. Gentle but purposeful hands drew up to press against two gloved fingers against the column of your throat. It was a ghost of his actions from earlier, though this time he didn’t jerk away from you with a curse.

You realized what he was doing and managed to murmur a “M’alive,” the words tasting like gravel in your throat. The Mandalorian acknowledged your words with a tilt of his head – you felt the hard base of the helmet slide against your shoulder – and continued his exploration.

His hands encircled your skull and tweaked the shell of your ears without warning. You wriggled, trying to bat the bounty hunter away from you. He ignored you, easily securing your feebly thrashing hands within his own. He began to tug gently on each one of your fingers.

“Do you feel that?” he asked. His modulated voice was low, but still seemed deafening in their cocoon of cloth. Not trusting your voice, lest you break out in a fit of hoarse coughs, you nod your head against his shoulder.

You seize the moment of silence to tamp down on your arousal as best you could, focusing on your breathing. You try your best to separate your touch-starved brain’s interpretation of the Mandalorian’s touches as anything but clinical observation.

In any other situation, the Mandalorian’s gentleness and care in these moments would have rendered you shock still. If asked about it yesterday, you would have declared that there was a better chance of finding a waterfall on Tatooine than the shiny hulking bounty hunter purposely being inconvenienced by you. On any other day, you would have likely been deeply uncomfortable with the whole exchange and looking for an escape.

However, you found yourself deeply touched that the Mandalorian allowed you to snuggle up to him as he fussed over you. Your contentedness was enough to chase away that niggling seed of doubt and insecurity.

You were still aware that your relaxed state wasn’t enough to cool the buzz under your skin from the Mandalorian’s presence. Each time he touched your skin with those butter-soft gloves - checking your vitals, your reactions - you felt your sex give a little jump of interest.

Fortunately, you had managed to wrangle that roaring _want_ you had woken up with to reasonable simmer.

You distracted yourself further by stretching out your cramped legs under the blankets, having no interest in shattering this dreamy moment with coital whims. That is, until the Mandalorian – that bastard – obliterated the moment all on his own.

As you uncoil your legs, he chooses that exact moment to move as well - perhaps to readjust his position, though a bitter part of you still thinks it was on purpose for _maximum humiliation_ \- and as a result the top of one muscled thigh brushes directly over your languidly beating core.

A moan is startled out of you, the barest touch to your sex resulting in tendrils of want shooting through your veins. The moan, deafening under the cave of the heavy blanket, makes you flinch violently. You were shocked fully awake in sudden realization and crushing horror, eyes wide and unseeing into the darkness around you.

Reality came back to you in a snap – the icy ship, swaddling yourself and the kid in clothing and linens, Mando later plucking the very much alive kid from your grasp, the Mandalorian crawling _into bed_ with you to warm your frozen _and very possibly almost dead_ ass up, you falling asleep, the Mandalorian… oh…

Oh fuck.

 _The Mandalorian._ He was still there.

You freeze at once, not daring to even breathe.

_Oh no._

Mando hadn’t moved so much as one iota either, as far as you could tell. Essentially blind under the blanket, you strain your other senses in a desperate bid to pick up any indication from the bounty hunter. You couldn’t even hear him breathe.

You felt the steady beat of his pulse against one cheek. It ratcheted up in tempo as the two of you lay frozen in each other’s arms.

_Oh no oh no oh no._

You were acutely aware that the two of you were still _so close_ , much closer than you had realized when you first woke up. Your limbs felt stiff as you held them in place against his armor, your thighs still poised awkwardly mid-stretch.

_Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no._

You could almost feel the heat of his thigh hovering just shy of the apex of your legs. You didn’t dare move. Closer or away – at this point it made no difference. Like spotted prey you just hung there in limbo, waiting on his reaction.

The tension was enough to almost make you start shivering again. Or cry. Or both.

After several heartbeats – which had felt like hours – and Mando hadn’t moved a muscle. _Was he horrified? Disgusted?_ You had unclenched just enough to feel the sharp lance of rejection rocket through your heart. Shame and disgust made your chest heavy.

You had just begun the careful extraction of your face from his shoulder, a quiet ‘I’m sorry’ whispering across your lips when the Mandalorian shifted his hips and – very deliberately – slotted his thigh between the junction of your thighs.

Again, a surprised moan stuttered out of your chest, broken up by feeble apologies that died in your throat. You lashed your hands up to slap them over your traitorous mouth but the Mandalorian was quicker. A firm grip caught them and drew them behind you, crossing your wrists at the small of your back. His grip left you almost as soon as it came, before you could even consider struggling, his hands moving to trace up the curves of your sides.

His touch was featherlight against your hips, his thigh snug between your legs as your core pulsed around it. You all but quivered around him but for entirely different reasons this time, heart beating fast in anticipation.

It took you a few breaths to realize he hadn’t moved at all, and another breath brought with it the realization that he was _waiting_ on you to react. Check. Your move. Do you want to keep playing?

_Yes._

Pretending you were braver than you felt, you tightened your legs against the solid granite of his thigh and shifted just slightly- _tentatively_ to chase your pleasure. The scrape of rough cloth against your most sensitive anatomy caused fireworks to spark under your eyelids, lighting up your world in the heavy darkness.

Your breath huffed out your nose as you undulated your hips haltingly, still unsure, painting the clothed hollow of the Mandalorian’s collar.

Fortunately, the bounty hunter was either impatient to spur on the situation or took pity on your insecure movements. His gloved hands settled more firmly on your hips and squeezed, commanding the roll of your hips with sheer controlled force. His thigh slotted flush against you as he drew you tighter together, so much that you felt your bellies and hipbones whisper against each other in the darkness.

All the while, not a sound came from the Mandalorian, his actions speaking louder than any spoken words.

Powerless in the Mandalorian’s grasp and not daring to move your hands from behind your back, you couldn’t help the squeak of surprise as you were slid into place. Then, he began to move you, levering your hips to swirl your body against his thigh. It was shockingly intimate and calculated the way he worked you against him

The steady and tantalizing pressure to your center was enough to leave you gasping and breathless, ballooning your already-throbbing arousal to a perilous edge. Your core was far drenched at this point, which helped somewhat in easing the repetitive friction of the fabric against your sensitive folds. However, the dulled bite of the abrasive cloth, especially against your sensitized bud, only served to fuel your desire.

You felt your climax come fast, curling in anticipation like an oversized cobra. You manage to stutter out a warning, hardly able to formulate words, but the bounty hunter apparently understood. His response was to accelerate the oscillation of your hips, bringing you hard and fast to your complete ruin.

It was this, the heaving of your hard nipples against the plane of the Mandalorian’s chest, the dent of his fingers in your hips, the tantalizing brush of your body against his as you rocked together, the tortuous drag of your core against his muscled thigh, and the heady scent of him filling your nose as you pressed your face to his neck, all culminated into a searing, white-hot drop in your belly that rocked its way through your core and down to your toes.

Mando worked you through it, tapering his movements to a slow rolling of your hips. Your hands had found their way to clench against his chest sometime during your release, and your balled fists shook as your body descended the summit.

Eventually, the Mandalorian released your hips and drew his hands up your back in a soothing gesture. Struck with a wave of sleepiness, you finally surfaced from the crook of his neck to unabashedly cuddle your head snugly under his chin. You felt him hesitate for the barest of moments – enough to incite a pang of insecurity - before his exploration of the plane of your back resumed.

His large, gloved hands drew themselves over the wings of your shoulder blades and to the back of your neck, squeezing briefly in what you could only guess was a hint of possessiveness, and then settling at the base of your skull, fitting you more snugly against him. The top of your head barely grazed the steel edge of his helmet.

You knew you ought to say something, but you were remiss to cheapen the afterglow with a lame _Thank you_ or _That was amazing_ or _I almost died you tin-can fuck, but props for the orgasm._

You felt your cheeks redden at the last thought.

You opted to leave things unsaid between the two of you. Really, bringing it up served no purpose. You were certain – _absolutely ­_ certain – that the two of you would never speak of this again.

Best case, you would resume your duties as glorified babysitter tomorrow. Mando would ignore you for a few days – the _full-ignore_ experience, sans the clipped statements and grunts of acknowledgement – but eventually things would go back to normal. Their version of normal, anyway.

Worst case was you’ll be waking up on another planet tomorrow, the Razor Crest burning away fast.

You were fairly certain that Best Case Scenario was more likely than Worst Case Scenario.

In the end, you said nothing at all, choosing instead to enjoy the bounty hunter’s ministrations on your back and shoulders. After all, it was the first time you’ve been touched like this in _years_ and you were determined to enjoy it – no matter tomorrow’s consequences.


End file.
